Run With The Devil
by Let'sSaveTheUniverse
Summary: In which Dean's life is fucked enough as it is when Crowley suddenly becomes a part of it. Dean/Crowley. M for later chapters. R&R?


He arrives on her doorstep in the middle of the night, smelling of cheap booze and grief. Lisa lets him into her life far more easily than she should. Into Ben's, too.

He lasts one week. It's all too much – the conversations that don't start 'how do we kill it' that leave him floundering, the smells of cooking and laundry instead of blood and burning and alcohol. Sometimes he wakes – in the spare room, mostly – certain that none of this is real, that he has to find Sam and get them the hell out of whatever cursed reality they've stumbled into. And then he remembers. Remembers that this is the real life, not just a fantasy. Caught in the landslide, as it were. Dean chokes back a mirthless, self-deprecating chuckle at his internal monologue.

It's hard, so much harder than he was expecting and he's aware – uncomfortably, painfully aware – that he doesn't fit. He has the wrong skills, the wrong instincts. Lisa doesn't say anything when she catches him laying salt lines across the doors and windows one night. Doesn't notice or doesn't comment on the shotgun under his bed.

One week, before the utterly alien _normality _of it all becomes too much. He wakes before sunrise, the greenish light of dawn just edging into the sky, and knows he can't do it.

I tried, Sammy. I did.

I'm sorry.

One week, then, before he's back on the road in a car that's too empty, too quiet and too loud at the same time. He leaves before sunrise, the greenish light of dawn just edging into the sky. He puts on the radio and turns the volume up. He can still hear the rattle of Lego pieces in the air conditioner, just a cold, unfeeling reminder of everything he's lost.

He drives all day, not caring where he's going as long as it's _away_. He pulls up by a liquor store in a town that's one street and a couple of shops from nothing at all. The world is wrong, twisted and strange, the sort of wrongness that only goes away when you look at it through the bottom of a bottle. So he drinks himself into unconsciousness that night, curled up in the back seat of the Impala, and doesn't think about the look Sam would get on his face. Somewhere between disappointment and pity. Bobby calls; must be worrying. Lisa too. Dean ignores it. No regrets, or too many. He loses himself in the sour burn of cheap whiskey.

The next day brings a trawl of the newspapers – the laptop is tumbled down somewhere in the back of the car and memories of Sam are to sharp and recent to even think about using it. Sammy. When was their last hunt together, before all this angels and demons crap? He doesn't properly remember, not any more.

A vampire hunt a state over, somewhere south of Salt Lake City. A whole nest, eight or more hiding from the sun in a wrecked farmhouse. When Dean's finished, his face and arms are painted and running with blood and he's feeling nothing at all.

He keeps heading west. It's as good a direction as any. Bobby calls again, and so does Lisa. Don't answer. Let them worry.

A string of slaughters in Sparks, Nevada. Ritualistic and bloody, every harvest moon going back years. He puts on a suit and bluffs his way into the latest crime scene. A tired, grey-faced detective. Dean knows the feeling. Washed out, like he's stretched too thin. Like he's wearing away.

"Where's your partner, agent?"

"He's, uh, busy. Fed stuff. He'll be along."

The cop looks dubious, but the badge is enough. Dean finds a sprig of mistletoe tucked behind a radiator. Pagan demigod.

He tracks it down without really thinking about what he's doing, following something that goes beyond senses – a hunter's instinct, something so intrinsic to his personality that it isn't even a _part _of his personality. It's that and luck, in the end; a flower shop with overflowing buckets of the foul herb three months early for Christmas. Sam said once that mistletoe is a parasite, latching onto the host tree and feeding off of it. The monster – sorry excuse for a god – almost takes Dean by surprise. Almost. He shoves a stake through the thing's chest with a savage twist and a spurt of blood, and watches the body burn, blue flames licking and snapping at the edges of it until it wavers out of existence. Norse magic.

Dean doesn't stop, stumbling from one hunt to the next in a haze of alcohol and exhaustion. He knows he's falling apart. He's growing reckless; there's a new scar wrapped around his left biceps, just under Cas's handprint – and that's another sweet stab of pain, because Cas is back in Heaven and doesn't seem to care any more. Dean's cheek is peppered with tiny asterisk-shaped burns, like snowflakes, from a particularly violent spirit going up in flames. They're only visible when they catch the light in just the right way, but he knows they're there and, in the twisted logic that Dean operates on these days, it's a step further from Sam.

It's a very clear, very cold winter's night when things change. Dean is lying on the bonnet of the Impala, gazing up into a sky filled with more stars than he's ever seen. The nearest town's still about thirty miles up the road, and he'd rather sleep in the car.

You'd've liked this, Sammy. Like when we were kids.

A meteor arcs across the sky, quickly followed by another. Dean tilts a bottle into his mouth – he doesn't give a crap what's in it, as long as it knocks him out.

"Your drinking habits haven't improved with time and a borderline mental breakdown, I see."

Dean closes his eyes. Son of a _bitch. _When he turns his head, Crowley is examining the bottle with distaste.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Crowley leans on the car. Dean feels it shift with his weight.

"Maybe I'm concerned about your welfare."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're here to wrap me in a blanket and protect me from my demons." He snorts at his choice of words.

"Is that so ridiculous?"

Dean laughs mirthlessly. "Yeah, 'cause you're a _demon._"

"Fair point." Dean hears him sigh. "Look, I owe you for the Apocalypse thing."

"And?"

"And maybe I don't like owing people."

Dean looks up at the demon. There's nothing but sincerity in those dark, dark eyes. Which he doesn't believe for a minute, of course, not after Ruby.

Crowley really has the darkest eyes he's ever seen, deep and warm-

The demon makes a small noise of amusement. "Just going to sit there staring? Or are we going to come to an arrangement?"

Dean snorts and mimics Crowley. "An _arrangement_? So, what, you're just gonna tag along until you save my ass or whatever, and then we're even?" Dean knows he's being stupid. Too much to drink. But he also can't bring himself to care.

Crowley regards him with amused disdain, which Dean supposes is the closest a demon can come to pity. "Something along those lines, yes."

And Dean just laughs, because what a fucking mess his life has turned into.

Crowley's still there when Dean has crawled into the back seat of the Impala to sleep. There's a distant expression on his face as he looks up at the stars, something that strikes Dean as so very un-demonic.

Probably just the alcohol talking. Yeah.

Dean wakes feeling like someone's poured glue into his mouth while he slept. Everything is too bright and sharp and cold, and the thunk of the Impala's door being opened goes straight through his head. And then his vision is full of Crowley and he groans, because all that actually _happened_, and now Crowley's shoving him down into scuffed leather and they're way too close and his head hurts and Crowley smells of smoke and something else, something sweet and strange-

"Stop squirming, Winchester," the demon snaps. "I'm trying to _help_."

Dean lets his head thump back against the leather and tries not to look too comfortable with the situation. Crowley is effectively pinning him down and Dean should probably be worried about that, but when blunt, startlingly gentle fingers brush his forehead all that happens is his head is suddenly a lot clearer and the world no longer hurts to look at.

"Thanks," mutters Dean grudgingly, and pushes the demon away. And no, he is not going to think about what just happened, because he's not entirely sure himself.

Frost has crept over the car during the night, and he scrapes at it diligently, cutting swathes through the fern patterns on the windscreen. That's the one thing that hasn't changed – his devotion to the Impala. Crowley watches with an expression of bored amusement, hands dug deep in coat pockets. They both know full well that he could get rid of the ice with a snap of his fingers, but Dean's too proud to ask – he still has some vestiges of his dignity.

This, Crowley tells himself, is going to be interesting.

Later that morning, they're having breakfast in a diner in one of those towns that seems the same as all the others. Or rather, Dean is gorging himself on bacon and sausages and pie and Crowley is leafing through a newspaper. He looks unimpressed, but then unimpressed is pretty much his default setting.

Dean picks up another paper. There's silence, until: "How 'bout this? Sightings of a-" he raises an eyebrow "-stray dog in a cemetery in Iowa."

The demon shrugs, successfully conveying his utter boredom with the human race in general, specifically that part of it which concerns Dean.

Dean continues. "The dog is described as 'huge, black and savage'." He glances up. Crowley looks marginally more interested. "What d'you reckon? Hellhound?"

Crowley tugs the paper out of Dean's grasp and scans the relevant inch of column. "Nah. Black Shuck."

Dean's never even heard of one. "What's a... Black Shuck?"

"Step up from a hellhound. Think demonic pit bull as opposed to cuddly fireside Labrador." He stands – and Dean notices, just for a moment, how gracefully the demon moves – and tosses the paper down. "Coming?"

"Uh." Dean swallows around the sudden dryness in his mouth. "Yeah. Coming."

They spend the rest of the day in the Impala, and it's still not right, not even close, but it's a little less empty than before. Crowley insists on changing the radio station every time Dean finds something he likes, and when he turns it off in frustration the car is too quiet. That doesn't last long, of course – Crowley is the most talkative demon he's ever had the misfortune to meet, and there's something about him that puts Dean on edge, makes him want things he shouldn't want. Something he can't identify, or maybe doesn't want to.

The sun is sinking, a wobbling disc of red on the horizon when they arrive at their destination. Apparently this Black Shuck or whatever will only come out at night. Crowley goes to the trunk and returns with a duffel bag, which he dumps unceremoniously in Dean's arms.

"Great. Thanks." He prods the bag suspiciously. "What is all this crap, anyway?"

Crowley meets his gaze, utterly serious. "Powerful and dangerous instruments of magic. Demon magic. Don't touch any of it if you want to stay as pretty as you are." The demon's voice is low and husky, lacking its usual mocking quality.

"Yeah?" asks Dean, voice just a little uneven. "What's it for?"

The demon leans against the Impala and shoves his hands in his pockets. "A Black Shuck is about the most powerful thing Hell can cook up, and Hell is _imaginative._ As you know.

"They're strong in all the places a hellhound is weak. Salt doesn't bother them, and they're as intelligent as any demon, human, or angel. It'll get inside your head and use whatever it can to stop you fighting and in your case it'll have more than ample ammunition."

"Great. How do we kill it?" (And he doesn't think about how right this feels, hunting again, with _Crowley _of all people, but it's there and it's _right_-)

"We burn its physical form. Unfortunately said physical form is practically invincible, so first we have to bind the incorporeal form."

"And how the hell do we do that?"

"_I_ set up the stuff for the ritual while _you_ distract the thing." Crowley grins. "Ready?"

Dean just stops, because no way in hell. "You- you want _me _to distract some fucking- some souped-up hellhound while you just _stand there_?"

Crowley cocks his head, apparently thinking about this. "Yes." As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't worry, you'll do fine."

"Great, that's- that's reassuring." Dean is having trouble believing that this is actually happening to him. Most of his life has been like that, come to think of it. "You got a better plan?"

Crowley glances over dispassionately. "I wasn't expecting to spend tonight fighting a horrible monster, darling. You can't expect genius all the time, even from me."

Dean turns his back. Great. Fucking wonderful.

The light is losing the reddish quality of sunset. Darkening. And out among the trees and the tombstones, a huge black shape flows up from the ground, shaping itself from shadows.

Crowley has painted a circle on the ground, in a dark viscous substance Dean really doesn't want to know about. He takes a metal bowl from the ground and start piling things in it – what looks like a piece of a skull, and a long, tapered tooth are the only items Dean recognises. Crowley looks – there's only one word – _demonic._

He looks up and speaks quickly, almost urgently. "It won't bother us until I start the spell. Then you have to keep it away." He pauses, as if trying to choose his words. "Look, don't die, will you? I hate leaving debts unpaid. And I think your trench-coated angel might just kill me."

Dean stares at him. "Yeah," he finally mutters. "You too."

Crowley stands and examines his handiwork. The circle is now surrounded by horribly organic-looking runes, and there's a strange design of intersecting circles and curved lines in the centre. The bowl is at his feet. Then without another word he snaps his fingers and fire, red and violent, flares into life.

Dean walks forward a little. He can hear Crowley chanting in an unfamiliar language, certainly not Latin; the syllables are jarring and painful in a way he's come to associate with angel or demon magic. Not meant for humans.

There's no transition, no smoke or sulphur – it's just _there_, without warning, filling up his field of vision. In an odd way, the pure savagery of it is quite beautiful; roughly the shape of a wolf, with eyes that burn cold and ancient and above all _intelligent._ The edges of it are strange, roiling with shadow; the light, what little of it there is, seems to be... draining away, or getting eaten up by the simple presence of the impossible creature.

Dean stands before it, tiny, insignificant, and wonders how the _hell _he's going to survive this one.


End file.
